The Black Stallion and Flame (7 page)

The wind was strong on their quarter as they sailed westward, and by sunset they were within sight of land. It rose from the sea in a series of rolling hills of green cane rimmed by palm-fringed beaches. But more heartening to the survivors than the beauty of the land were the villages rising from the waterfront to high, well-cultivated plains. There was nothing remote or primitive about the island; it was productive, civilized, a place where they could easily get help.

The rays of the setting sun shone in the captain’s eyes as he tried to select his landing point carefully. He watched for gaps in the surf line and headed for them. He ordered everybody to put on life vests again and trailed the sea anchor over the stern with as much line as he had. The anchor together with the oars would help keep the raft pointing toward shore. If possible they’d ride in on the crest of a wave. He didn’t expect any trouble. It was only a medium surf with a small coral reef to cross. They had won! They had staved off death. They were going
home
. It was good to think about. He had a wife and four kids.

“It won’t be long now,” he said aloud but softly.

They were all nodding quietly back at him, all but the boy Alec, who wanted with all his heart to know the answer to the question that tormented him:
I wonder if my horse made it too?

The chestnut stallion stood motionless on a slight incline overlooking his herd. He might have been a giant statue on a pedestal except that no sculptor could have reproduced accurately his fineness of form and carriage.

He was the color of fire and the very air about him crackled as if he were discharging invisible flames. His head was small but his eyes were large and black and brilliant. It was his eyes that betrayed him for what he was—a wild stallion on guard, alert, questioning and dangerous.

Suddenly, and for the first time in many minutes, he moved. There was a quivering of his flaring nostrils, followed by a nervous twitching of his ears. His cascading mane and tail were picked up and riffled by a sudden gust of wind, then he was still again.

He was the veteran of hundreds of battles, completely unafraid of the intruder who sought his mares as openly as this black one. He raised his handsome head
higher, surveying the stranger’s small band and coveting it. His body rocked slightly on his long, clean legs, and the interplay of his muscles was beautiful to see. He exuded power, bearing himself as if he could never be conquered by man or beast, never be ridden or put between shafts. And he knew exactly what to do in the face of danger.

He turned to his own mares, moving with all the dignity of a thousand monarchs. He was the object of trembling reverence and awe until he snorted. Then the mares heeled like a giant pinwheel, starting to form a tight circle with their hindquarters at the outer edge. Mindful of their long-legged foals at their sides, some of the mares trotted more slowly than others. The red stallion moved upon them swiftly. Nipping the tardy mares gently, for he was considerate as well as intelligent, he hurried them into formation and then turned again to face his foe. He waited for the fight to be brought to him.

The moments dragged on. He waited for the strange stallion to move, to fidget. But it seemed that his foe, too, was content to wait. Such steadiness in another stallion was unknown to him. In all his years of combat it had never happened before. Little did he know that the strange stallion was his equal in all things and that he faced the fiercest battle of his life.

The Black Stallion wasn’t startled by what he had found. The trail he had followed was plainly marked with hoofprints as large as his own, and the scent of other horses had been strong in his nostrils. But now he did not go forward eagerly. He quieted his excited mares with a sharp reprimand and then stood stock-still while the breeze bent the tall cane around them.

Only the rapid rise and fall of his ribs and the
brightness of his eyes betrayed his excitement. He began to breathe harder, his strong muscles bulging beneath his glossy satin coat.

His eyes left the leader of the herd just once. That was when he glanced skyward at the flowing clouds and saw the great black bird that swept across the valley and perched itself on a dead tree beyond the cane.

The Black turned back to his foe, waiting for him to attack. His fury mounted like an oncoming wind and finally he shook his head, tossed his mane and rose high in the air. He came down hard, pawing the ground and lashing the wind. He squealed furiously as if to tell his foe that he, too, had led wild herds and conquered many stallions! Never had he been matched in courage and cunning! He feared no savage beast, no other stallion!

One sharp ear was turned to his own mares while the other remained pricked forward toward his foe. His fury continued to mount and again he tossed his head and rose, pawing the air. When he finally came down he seemed to be breathing fire.

Suddenly the Black moved forward. His mares followed him, smashing through the cane in their eagerness not to be left behind. But the Black had little thought for his band at this time and his speed increased with every stride. Faster and faster he ran, his action so smooth and swift, despite his bruised hoof, that it seemed as if it would have been no trouble for him to have flown. He soared above the ground, taking longer and longer strides, his great nostrils puffed out with air. As he approached the big herd, jubilation was evident in every movement. He was ready to conquer!

Suddenly he stopped as if struck by a bullet. On the
wind rang a shrill whistle, uttered not by the red leader but by still another stallion!

Among the young stallions who stood just outside the ring on guard there was one who, more than any of the others, coveted the position as supreme leader of the herd. He was milk-white in color and unlike the other young, ambitious stallions his body was unscathed; there were no cuts, bruises or tooth marks. And yet he was a veteran of more fights than any horse in the herd with the exception of the red stallion he expected one day to dethrone. He left the ring, going downwind, his eyes like his leader’s watching the strange black stallion. In the cold, bleak light of early morning, his warm nostrils could be seen reddening as he blew them out, snorting, while his great eyes bulged in their sockets. Then he again whistled his clarion call of battle and broke into a run, moving down the valley with the grace of a large white bird.

Suddenly he stopped and whirled as if undecided as to the proper method of attack. He snorted repeatedly at his black opponent, his body trembling with rage … or was it in sudden terror?

He reared, going up and up and up. Coming down, he looked back at the herd for the first time since he’d left it. He stood still for a moment, sniffing the air, pricking up his ears, listening to the whinnies and snorts from the mares. Then as if it had all been decided for him, he turned downwind once more.

Fire flashed in his eyes as he screamed again and again. He rose once more, lashing out with his hoofs and rocking the valley with a thunderous sound when he came down. He squealed fiercely at the Black Stallion, as if hoping to frighten him away … all to no avail.

Finally he bounded off on long slender legs, half on the ground, half in the air, having betrayed himself for what he was—a stallion too young, too inexperienced for the black horse who silently, quietly awaited him.

All at once the Black Stallion was no longer earthbound! He moved toward the white horse, full of life and vigor and, most of all, confidence. He had not been frightened at all by the milk-white charger, who by his antics had sought to instill nameless terror within him. Often he had met such young stallions in battle, all seeking to be the chosen king of the herd and to assume leadership. They were all too eager, and this one was no different.

He watched the other coming toward him again. The milk-white stallion was running with his head bent a little too close to the ground. His pace, too, was irregular as if he weren’t quite sure whether to lope or trot or stop.

More confident than ever, the Black Stallion prepared to meet his opponent. He knew no master, no companion save one who was not here. With marvelous flowing action he streaked across the valley floor, meeting his foe head-on!

The Black reared and lashed and whirled, his hoofs rocking the white stallion with thunderous blows. When he came down he sped around the other with the speed of summer lightning. Again he rose, coming down with battering forefeet on the other’s haunches.

The white stallion sought to escape the blows, squealing in rage and pain. Flecks of foam spattered the air from his mouth. Already he knew he was defeated. His opponent’s mastery of combat was far greater than his own. He could not equal the other’s quickness,
cunning and courage. He wheeled to get away and then, straightening out, ran across the valley, seeking the tall cane in which he might lose his pursuer. He was frightened. For here was an enemy who, he had realized from the first whirlwind charge, would cut him to pieces with slashing hoofs and teeth.

Upon reaching the cane his rush slackened, then picked up again when he discovered that the Black Stallion was close behind. For a moment it looked as though he might turn back to stand at bay and snort in defiance. But instead he kept running, now forward, now sideways, seeking to escape the black fury behind him. But there seemed to be no way of shaking him off. The white stallion was trapped.

Having humbled his enemy, the Black Stallion did not intend to kill him. He had no impulse to fling himself upon the young stallion, who was no match for him. It was one thing to kill through necessity, another to kill a beaten foe. He dropped back, letting the other seek refuge in the cane.

A few minutes later he returned to his band, favoring his bruised foot more than ever. And he screamed his high-pitched call, once more claiming this land as his very own. Yet he did not go forward to meet the red stallion, for he was too much of a veteran not to know that his quiet adversary was a most worthy one, one he dare not meet at this time. He would wait until the pain left his foot, then return. Snorting to his mares, he drove them once again through the marsh and back to the smaller valley.

The squall swept quickly from the open sea into the harbor of Chestertown, port city of the island of Antago, British West Indies. It hammered an anchored freighter a mile out in the bay and prevented stevedores from unloading further cargo into the tenders alongside. It swept on to the wharf and Custom House, then crossed the remaining seafront into the heart of the city. It washed the cobblestone streets clean before climbing the island hills and disappearing in a mist.

The sun came out again and a brilliant rainbow appeared, arching over the city and harbor. Perspiring men, naked to the waist, resumed unloading the freighter while tenders streamed back and forth to the pier. The transfer of cargo was supervised vigilantly by harbor police who wore white middies, bell-bottom trousers and flat, wide-brimmed hats while standing majestically in deep rowboats. After the heavy shower, the air was very damp and laden with the sweet, heavy odor
of hundreds of bags of cane sugar stacked on the pier and waiting to be loaded onto the ship.

Within the city itself, the people of Antago emerged in throngs from banks, hotels and shops, creating a crazy tangle of noisy traffic. They overflowed the too-narrow sidewalks, spilling into the streets and scurrying along hurriedly before honking bicycles and cars. Police blew their whistles in prolonged bursts of frenzy at every intersection, seeking attention. And above all the noise a lone woman’s shrill wails could be heard as she hawked the wares carried in a huge basket balanced on her head.

Behind a pink stucco wall and an iron grille gate at the end of the busy street was a quiet and stately old colonial residence. A sign on the wall read
ANTAGO POLICE AND IMMIGRATION DEPTS
.

The screened doors of the building opened and a policeman accompanied by Alec Ramsay and Henry Dailey stepped onto the porch.

The police officer wore a blue uniform trimmed with gold braid. He glanced at the anchored freighter in the harbor and for a few seconds seemed to be listening to the far-off rattling of the winches and the thuds of heavy cargo being dropped into the tenders. Finally he said, with a decidedly British accent, “I’m afraid you should be leaving with your friends. We have no regular service to the States and it might be several weeks before—”

Henry interrupted. “Now that our folks know we’re alive, we’ve got time.” He nodded to Alec and added, “Plenty of it.”

“I don’t care how long it takes,” the boy said. “I’m staying as long as there’s a chance of finding my horse.”

Shrugging his shoulders, the police officer said, “Even somebody as young as you shouldn’t waste too much time.”

A chill passed over Alec. “I might not be wasting it. We made it to land, so could he.”

“We have to think he’s safe,” Henry told the officer. “And your commissioner has given us some hope, telling us of the lone horse seen running on your western beaches.”

“It happens often that a horse breaks loose from one of the plantation corrals,” the officer said patiently. “I would not set my hopes too high if I were you.”

“But this one is black,” Henry answered. “He could be ours.”

“We’ll soon find out.”

“If I could just
see
him,” Alec said. “You don’t have to think of catching him. Just let me get one look. I’ll know … so will he.”

The officer smiled sympathetically. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. Our island is small and under a high degree of cultivation. There aren’t too many places for a horse to hide.”

Wearing khaki trousers, cotton shirts, canvas sneakers and sun hats supplied by the city government, Alec and Henry followed the policeman into a small black sedan.

“We’ll be back within a few hours but I’m afraid your ship will be gone by then,” the officer said, starting the car.

Henry grunted. “I wish you’d stop feelin’ sorry for us. We’re pretty lucky just to be here at all.”